Last Seen Alive

by Carlene Thompson

  “Is beer okay?”

  Chyna had never been fond of beer, but she doubted if this place served Cosmopolitans. “Beer it is. I want to fit in.”

  “Oh, you do,” Scott reassured her. It was meant as a compliment, but Chyna glanced with sudden insecurity at her silk and wool blend slacks, blue cashmere sweater, and designer suede jacket. She also remembered that this morning she’d slipped in her diamond stud earrings, last year’s Christmas gift from her mother and each a full carat. Did she really look like all these other people with their worn jeans and flannel shirts?

  Suddenly she realized she’d really meant what she’d said to Scott: “I want to fit in.” She’d never felt like she fit in anywhere with her visions, her hearing of voices, her brushes with other people’s experiences. Ever since she’d been old enough to realize her “sixth sense” made other people uncomfortable, even made them think she was something of a freak, she’d constantly been on her guard. She’d tried to hide from the things her mind told her that no one else knew. She especially tried to hide her “power,” or whatever it was, from everyone except Zoey, gone long ago, and now Scott, who she knew didn’t completely believe she wasn’t just hyperimaginative, no matter how hard he was trying.

  No, tonight Chyna wanted to forget the bizarre side of her life and just have a good time with all these “regular” folks with their beer and country music. She’d never been in a place where so many people looked like they were having a wonderful time.

  Scott came back with a pitcher of beer and two glasses. “I see a table over there in the corner,” he shouted above the din. “Let’s grab it. Everything else is taken.”

  He barged ahead of Chyna, holding the pitcher high so beer wouldn’t slosh out as people bumped into him. When they did, Scott said, “Excuse me,” the dancers said, “Excuse me,” and everyone smiled. Well, no fights yet, Chyna thought. No one looked as if they were spoiling for a fistfight, either.

  Who’d told her not much went on at this place except fighting? Ned? Her mother? Chyna couldn’t remember. And it didn’t matter, because she saw Scott moving smoothly, deftly dodging flying elbows and feet stomping to the music. He wasn’t limping anymore. His shoulders didn’t have that slight droop she’d noticed when she first saw him down by Lake Manicora using the walking stick. Maybe the precrash Scott was coming back, she thought, almost afraid to hope for such a miracle. Maybe his spirit had been too strong even for disaster to crush.

  Once they were seated, Scott poured two glasses of beer, each with a large, foamy head. “A lot of people tell you to pour slowly so you get as little foam as possible,” he said loudly to Chyna, “but actually, you get rid of a lot of the carbon dioxide in the foam. Therefore—”

  “You get less gas,” Chyna said wryly. “How romantic.”

  Scott grinned. “That piece of information usually reduces women to putty in my hands.”

  “I take it that piece of information, as you call it, is one of your tried-and-true seduction lines.”

  Scott frowned. “Well, it’s one of my best.”

  “I guess you don’t date a lot, then.”

  Scott made a face at her. “I suppose you’d rather hear about your beautiful eyes and silky hair.”

  “I wouldn’t go for that one, either.” Chyna took a sip of beer. “And please don’t say you really admire me for wanting to help people by going into medicine.”

  “I’ll bet you’ve heard that statement a lot.”

  “Yes. Usually from guys who follow up by asking if I’ll make a lot of money when I’m a full-fledged oncologist.”

  “Then my approach that had nothing to do with your beauty or your self-sacrifice or your money should have been a real change of pace.”

  “Oh, it was. I congratulate you on your unconventional approach to the so-called fairer sex.”

  “Thanks. I don’t like to be obvious.”

  Chyna reached for her glass of beer just as a woman jostled the table. She apologized profusely and Chyna smiled

  and told her it was nothing, although beer had splashed on her new suede purse.

  Scott made a face when the woman turned around. “Sorry.”

  “I’m sure I can find some genius who knows how to remove stains from suede,” Chyna said, smiling, as she took the purse from the edge of the table and hung it on the arm of her chair next to the wall. A piece of white paper fluttered from a side pocket and Chyna reached to the floor and retrieved it. When she rose, her smile was gone. “ ’Deirdre Mayhew. Five-five-five one-two-one-two. Any time after eight P.M.’ “ She sighed. ”I never called Deirdre, Scott.”

  “You never got a chance.”

  “But—”

  “But what? If you’d called her, she wouldn’t have been abducted? That’s ridiculous.”

  “I wasn’t thinking—”

  “Yes, you were. And I want you to stop it right now.” The woman on the stage was now singing “Don’t Be Stupid.” “We’re going to dance,” Scott nearly shouted at Chyna, already rising from his chair.

  “Are you up to dancing?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Okay,” Chyna said listlessly. “But I’m not really in the mood right now.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “Besides, I’m not a very good dancer, Scott, so don’t get carried away like some of those people.”

  Actually, Chyna had taken years of ballet classes when she was younger and usually loved to dance—rock, salsa, even still some ballet. She worried that Scott wasn’t as strong as he thought, though, and they should take it easy. But when they found a small spot on the crowded dance floor, Chyna knew she didn’t need to fret. So many people jammed the floor that there was barely room to move, but she did her best and Scott seemed to hold his own.

  Chyna forced herself first to concentrate on Scott, then to relax and let herself move to the music. After about five min-

  utes, she’d managed to edge Deirdre to the back of her mind. Then, on impulse, she twirled and, surprised, twirled again. A few people around her clapped as she felt her cheeks warm.

  Scott looked at her, his eyes shining. “Having fun?” “Either I’m having a ball or I’m drunk,” Chyna laughed. “I think I’ll start coming here every time I’m in town.”

  Scott grinned. “I just hope I’m here to come with you. Especially on wet T-shirt night.”

  2

  Deirdre had no idea how far she’d walked. After her fall over the unknown metal object in her prison, she’d taken tiny steps because her hands were still firmly taped behind her back and she couldn’t use them to make sure she had clear space in front of her. If she took only mincing, careful steps, she was bound to bump her foot, lightly, against any impediment. After all, she couldn’t risk another fall. The last one had made a tremendous noise, but the crash hadn’t brought her captor running because he knew she was partially free, and it hadn’t hurt her. At least not much. But a bad fall could be the end of her. So she had to be careful, so careful.

  When Deirdre brushed against a door, she would have let out a cry of joy if, mercifully, her mouth hadn’t been taped. She turned her back to the door, then slowly brushed against it until her hands encountered a knob. It would be locked, of course, she thought. She’d have to take another snail’s-paced tour around the building until she found something with which to pound it loose…

  Automatically her right hand clenched the knob and tried to turn it. This is silly, she thought. It won’t move. It’s locked.

  The doorknob turned with only a slight squeak, the door flew open, and Deirdre, who’d been leaning against it, fell out of the building. She lay stunned for a moment. Why hadn’t that door been locked? Certainly her captor wouldn’t have just stuck her in an unlocked building.

  Unless he’d left in a hurry, she concluded. She could feel the fingers caressing her face, the warm breath in her ear, the pressure of a body against hers—and then the car had driven up right next to the building. A car with at least four peopl
e in it. The voices had been young, but still—at least four people would have been up against one. And they’d said something about coming in. Someone had gotten out of the car. Deirdre realized now that the car had been on the opposite side of the building from the door. At the time, she had been concentrating so much on those voices, she hadn’t noticed that no one touched her face or body anymore. Of course not. Fear of capture had sent her own captor scurrying quickly and quietly to the door, which, probably in a frenzy of fear, had been left unlocked.

  The unlocked door would be remembered, though, and when all seemed safe, the teenagers long gone, a return visit would be in order. Maybe it would come an hour from now. Maybe it would come in just a few minutes. She had to get away from here fast.

  Deirdre pulled up her knees again, rolled onto her legs, then dug her bare feet into the cold grass and gravel and heaved herself up to her knees, then stood. Once again, she weaved for a few moments without hands to steady her, without sight to help her focus on a point until her balance returned. She simply let herself weave, trying to make her body fluid. She knew if she went rigid, she’d slam to the ground again. The weaving slowed, and finally she was firmly planted on her feet.

  Deirdre turned her head right and left, although she could see nothing. Which way should I go? she wondered. Where can I find someone to help me?

  The car. When it had sped away, it had sounded like it was headed to her left. She thought. Yes, she was almost certain she heard it roaring off to the left.

  Deirdre took a deep breath, told herself to ignore how cold and frightened she was, and began walking.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  1

  Chyna insisted they sit down after the third song. “I’m worn-out,” she said loudly, the need for shouting temporarily unnecessary between songs. The Shania wannabe onstage was sweating profusely and taking a long slug of beer from a bottle. “I really need to catch my breath, Scott.”

  “No, you want me to sit down and catch my breath,” Scott said, smiling. “You’re right. I don’t want to take a chance on injuring these dancing legs.”

  When they made it back to the table, Chyna grabbed her glass of beer and took three substantial swallows.

  “Well, I guess you were tired,” Scott said. “And thirsty.”

  “Both. I haven’t danced in a long time.”

  “You don’t regularly go clubbing in Albuquerque?”

  Chyna laughed. “Are you kidding? I’m a medical resident, Scott. All I do is work and study.”

  “No time for a boyfriend?” Scott’s voice was overly casual and he quickly lifted his glass to his lips.

  “Nope. No boyfriend,” Chyna replied, absurdly glad that he’d asked in a way that let her know it wasn’t an off-the-cuff question. “Only Michelle.”

  “She seems like she’d be the perfect companion—sweet tempered and not overly hyper like this poodle my girlfriend

  has.” Chyna’s heart sank until Scott added, “I mean my ex-girlfriend. The trauma of the plane crash seems to have messed up my sense of time. We parted ways three months ago.”

  “Oh.” Chyna, too, took a sip of beer and asked offhandedly, “Do you miss her?”

  “No, not much.” He frowned. “Well, to be truthful, not at all. Admitting that just sounds so …”

  “Cavalier?”

  Scott nodded. “She was a nice woman, but we realized we were just marking time with each other because we were the same age and both pilots.” He smiled. “Actually, I think she was really looking for a guy her poodle loved, and it sure wasn’t me. I couldn’t stand him, either, and I’m a dog lover.”

  “I could tell by the way you acted around Michelle when you first saw her at the lake.” Chyna glanced at her watch. “I wonder if I should call and see if Rex is home?”

  “Rex? Why? Do you have a curfew?”

  “No, and neither does he, but something else happened today that involved Rex.” She briefly told him about Rusty’s admission that he’d seen Nancy Tierney fall during her run and he’d just taken off and left her there. Scott’s forehead wrinkled and she knew his opinion of Rusty had forever been altered. “If he’s telling the truth, I admit I’m disappointed in him for not doing something to help Nancy. But he may not have been telling me everything, Scott. He said someone was chasing Nancy and that’s why she was going so fast and not watching her footing. He said he didn’t see who was chasing her.

  “But the worst part is that when he finished, we looked up and saw Rex, Gage, and Owen at the door,” Chyna continued. “Owen looked ready to spit nails. He was furious. Rex made some excuse to go home with him. I think he was afraid that if he didn’t keep Owen occupied for a while, Owen might beat Rusty to death or something equally awful.”

  Scott raised his eyebrows. “That was quite an admission for Rusty to make about watching her. Why was he telling you all of this?”

  “Because I’d seen him earlier in the day. He put his hand on my back and I saw Nancy running down that path through his eyes. I suppose I started acting uneasy, he remembered all the ESP stuff from when I was young, and then he got nervous. Nancy’s death must constantly be on his mind.”

  “So you think he was trying to keep you from suspecting him of having anything to do with Nancy dying.”

  “Yes.”

  Scott was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, “Do you believe Rusty?”

  “That he just happened to be on the path where Nancy was running that evening? Not for a minute. That would be just too much of a coincidence.”

  “I mean about his not seeing who was chasing Nancy.”

  “Oh.” Chyna thought. “Yes. I think she was being chased, but I don’t think Rusty saw the person. I don’t know why I believe part of his story but not all of it, but I do.”

  “But someone else might not have believed that either he wasn’t chasing her himself or he didn’t get a good look at who was chasing her.”

  “Exactly.” Chyna frowned. “Either way, he didn’t count on his father hearing him tell this tale, and you know how Owen is about the great Burtram family dignity. God, for him to know that Rusty was blabbing to me about going around watching Nancy…” Chyna shivered. “If I were Rusty, I certainly wouldn’t want to face Owen after that scene.”

  “Well, even if Rex managed to head off old Owen for a while, the guy’s not going to forget what he heard Rusty say.” Scott paused and looked at her solemnly. “I’m sure you know Owen has a reputation for eyeing young women. Very young women.”

  “I’ve heard gossip,” Chyna said vaguely.

  “Well, it’s true. Owen is a letch.”

  “And he’s older,” Chyna murmured. “Rusty said the footsteps following Nancy were heavy and clumsy.”

  “Like an older person’s might be compared to a fleet young thing like Nancy?” Chyna nodded, and Scott added,

  “Owen is also one very mean son of a bitch under that unctuous manner of his.” Scott shook his head. “Chyna, Owen is going to make Rusty pay for what he told you, especially if he was the one chasing Nancy and he thinks Rusty saw him.”

  2

  Deirdre had walked gingerly on gravel and frosted grass for a while, all the time thinking that her abductor was going to jump on her any moment. After a while, though, she stopped thinking about being followed or even watched. She was too consumed with trying to keep herself on her feet and taking small steps, not giving in to the urge to run, to worry about anything else. So far, she’d stepped hard on a rock that had left her right foot aching, tripped over cold, leafless vines, and walked into a tree. She was sure she’d have a bruise on her forehead tomorrow. If she was lucky enough to live until tomorrow.

  Her nose ran, her breath came hard and heavy, and her feet felt so cold and sore she was tempted to sit down. But she didn’t give in to the temptation for rest. She was partly afraid that if she did sit down, she wouldn’t be able to make her sore, exhausted body rise again, and partly frightened that she had not gotten far enough away from
her prison that she couldn’t be easily found. So she plodded on, her eyes taped shut, her hands trapped behind her with several layers of duct tape, and her entire body shivering in the cold night. She had no idea where she was. She had no idea where she’d end up if she kept going in this direction. But at least she no longer simply lay on that concrete floor, a silent, helpless victim waiting to be murdered.

  She thought of the voice she’d heard, or imagined she’d heard, in her prison. The voice telling her not to give up, that Chyna was trying to help her. The voice had sounded young, but not familiar—not the voice of anyone Deirdre knew. It probably existed only in her mind. She’d heard so much about Chyna Greer all of her life. Some people had admired

  Chyna and completely believed she was good and blessed with a special and wonderful gift. Other people, particularly Irma Vogel, had hated Chyna and talked about her being unnatural and even evil. When Irma occasionally went on those rants about Chyna, Deirdre had thought with a chill that the woman sounded like a raving lunatic.

  Of course, Deirdre thought Irma was fairly off-kilter about most things. She certainly wasn’t the kind, helpful, caring woman she pretended to be. Deirdre believed Irma was small-minded, often vicious in her judgments of people, and, worst of all, secretly glad when Deirdre’s mother had died. Irma had set her sights on Ben Mayhew as soon as she learned his wife was incurably ill. Deirdre could never forgive the woman for feigning sorrow and sympathy at her mother’s funeral when she’d known that secretly Irma had been delighted.

  And she doesn’t like me any more than she liked my mother or Chyna, Deirdre thought as she inched along, still being as careful as possible so she wouldn’t fall. She’s probably glad I’m gone. Now, at last, she’s got Daddy all to herself.

  This last thought drew Deirdre up short. Irma had wanted her out of the way. She hadn’t been able to hide her disappointment when she’d learned Deirdre wasn’t leaving for college back in September. Deirdre knew Irma didn’t stand a chance of winning Ben Mayhew’s affection, but what if she thought she did if only he weren’t both bolstered and protected by his daughter? And then, lo and behold, Chyna Greer’s mother had died and Chyna had come home. Irma always said girls went missing when Chyna was around.